Sing Salvation
by ChimericalParoxysm
Summary: Draco has demons. He also has a solution. But maybe it's all crumbling anyway.
1. Bittersweet Addiction

A/N: In response to Miles Long's Full Album Fic challenge. The album I chose is "There is a Hell, Believe Me I've Seen It. There is a Heaven, Let's Keep it a Secret" by Bring Me the Horizon :)

Please note that the chapter titles are _not_ the titles of the songs used. Instead I will supply a sample of the significant lyrics, from the song in question, at the beginning of each chapter.

* * *

Someone call an exorcist, and help me kill this curse

I can't stop the bleeding, and it's only getting worse

xXx

Tastes so bitter, feels so sweet

I've come back to old remedies

- Anthem

* * *

His soul was ash; as fractured—as shattered—as that of the man he once purported to follow, to enslave himself to. But that man has fallen. And so has this one. An empty carcass, a bloodied cadaver, condemned somehow to continue walking this deadened world; this wasteland populated by stone statues and governed by a vicious sun that casts its rusted light over endless landscape.

His eyes burned with sleepless nights. For his demons haunted his every moment and their wicked whispers echoed loudly in darkened rooms, and so he never slept. An unopened bottle of Fire Whisky rested on the table at his side—he dared not open it, but he sometimes liked to contemplate the escape he would never deserve. The broken glass in the fire grate reminded him why he couldn't, wouldn't, drink again. She hadn't deserved it either, and not even in his most despondent state could he risk doing that to her again. The tears on her cheeks were burned into his mind, and he could still feel the sting of her face on his hand.

He threw himself out of his chair and strode aimlessly through the Manor. He was sick of dwelling; sick of regretting; sick of mourning for his soul. But the world was frozen around him - stuck in this eternal stasis and he couldn't move. He caught himself watching for her out a window. Disgust, but then quickly he rationalised it away. He just needed her. It wasn't that he wanted her, and never that he missed her; he was just a junkie craving his fix.

At any rate, she'd be here soon, and he grew more and more restless as the sun fell farther and farther beneath the horizon. As the clock began to count down the minutes until her time of arrival, and then to slowly, painfully tick away the minutes of her lateness, his agitation grew unbearable. He finally heard her let herself into the entry hall—he'd long rid himself of the Manor's elves, unable to tolerate their intrusion on his solitude—and instantly relaxed, heading down to meet her.

"Hi, Draco," she said with a soft smile.

His teeth instantly clenched, at the display of affection, but he swallowed the irritation.

"Astoria," he acknowledged. He couldn't help but admire the way the smile remained steadfastly on her pretty lips. She had it all down to an art, the pretending; an absolute master. Sometimes even _he_ couldn't tell what she was really thinking or feeling.

He led her out to the balcony, she preferred to eat outside—some nonsense about the ambience and the energy. Their ritual always began this way. Wine and dine, because he knew she needed it, just like he needed what would come later.


	2. Abstractions

Let's fuck till our lungs give out,

It won't be long.

A night to remember, a day to forget.

xXx

We're young and in love,

Heart attacks waiting to happen,

So come a little closer, tell me it's all in our heads.

xXx

Your voice makes my heart skip beats,

So, keep quiet before it flatlines.

- Fuck

* * *

The sighs, the moans—salvation. And as she came undone before him, he knew he fucking loved her. Later he'd hate her again; he'd hate her for her hope, and her faith, and her smiles, and her laughs. He'd hate her for her absolute joy in life. God how he'd fucking hate her. But right now it didn't matter. Right now he could love her sweat-ridden body, and he could be free; he could forget; he could almost pretend to be whole. The divine gift which she bestowed upon him.

And he knew his own salvation was painful for her, and still she came back again, and again, for some abstract concept she used so desperately to justify her shame. Some days that knowledge would grind shards of glass into what remained of his heart. Most days he left her before the thoughts could penetrate the walled fortress of his mind. Because eventually she'd move, and so he'd flee before she could wake and remind him that he wanted nothing more than to tear her eyes from her face for looking at him that way—the way that made him feel like he was supposed to be something more, like to her he _was_ something more, more than just an empty casing for an empty heart.

She never said it, that she loved him; she knew so much better than that, but he was a Slytherin and so he saw it nonetheless, because she _breathed_ it. It was in everything she did, not just in the way she looked at him, or the way she said his name, or the way she had that _smile_—the one that he knew was just for him. But also in the evidence of her presence—her continued return—, and in the words she spoke, and even in the bloody way she _moved_. And it killed him. Because Draco Malfoy was beyond hope. Because Draco Malfoy had long ago moved out of reach of all things pure and good, had long ago forsaken them.

All things except her, the stereotypical fallen angel, and yet somehow, regardless of what he put her through, what she put herself through, she never truly fell. And perhaps that was how it had all started—a craving for the touch of something so ludicrously pure.

She moved and Draco tensed beside her, praying she'd stay asleep. But her breathing remained steady, and she stilled once more, and so he dragged himself from the room. He was never there when she woke up.


	3. Till The Sun Comes Up

Now I've never felt weaker in all my life

You said it's only a one off, only a line

xXx

Are you addicted?

Tell me the truth

I think I'm losing my mind

xXx

I'm so fucked up since I hit the ground

Revive me

- The Fox and the Wolf

* * *

Another night, another dose, but tonight was different. _She_ was different, and he could tell, and it set him on edge. He didn't know what it was, and that only made it worse. She was thinking. Thinking and on the verge of speaking, and he felt the panic rise within him.

"Hold me, Draco?" Her voice was soft—barely audible—and he wondered whether it was soft enough that he could pretend he hadn't heard her. Pretend to her. Pretend to himself.

"I know you don't want to. I know it's not your thing." Her voice was louder now—stronger, more certain—but his mind was rushing louder still and when he didn't—couldn't—respond she continued. "I come here, for you, because you need it. But damn it, Draco, I need _this_. So please, just this once, will you hold me? Will you stay?" She punctuated the plea with the softest kiss he'd ever felt. A wave of tortured weakness rushed through his body. He could feel a tremble run through her, showing that she knew how risky, bold, brave the move was, but the reflexive fury she likely anticipated was washed away by his own tremulous weakness, and that pitiful remainder of his heart was pierced by her lips, as icy fingers that flood with pain as the heat seeps slowly back into them.

The silence stretched on and his heart raced faster and faster—frantic echoes of an unrealised thought. She rolled over to face him properly and her eyes were full of warmth and concern. "Draco, I—. You don't have to, I just thought—. I just needed… I needed to try, is all. I couldn't _not_. I—" Her plea for forgiveness—a being of purity to a casing of evil—brushed through the ashes of his soul, spinning them into a dark cloud that lent to his soul a form, wraith-like, yes, but a form nonetheless. And so he cut her off with a tender kiss to her temple. An act so terribly foreign to both of them. Her words froze in the cool air between them and her eyes widened, though in confusion or fear or some other feeling, he didn't have the time to discern as he pulled her gently to his chest and wrapped his arms around her shaking form.

The sun was soon rising up over the low trees, blackened by the brilliance of the light, and the orange glow crept unbidden into the room, reaching ever to light upon her innocence. Amongst the tangled sheets she was beautiful. He could almost forget that soon her eyes would open, and they'd look on him as though he were deserving of love and of trust and of all things good. But maybe it was so dreadful only because he wanted it to be...


	4. A Taste, A Touch, Condemned

No set of rules could salvage me

We just watch the waves crash over

xXx

There is a Hell, believe me I've seen it

There is a Heaven, let's keep it a secret

No one needs to know

xXx

Are you saying that you can save me

Don't hope to ever find me

And I'll say that you forgot.

- Crucify Me

* * *

She was still there, at the Manor; her presence set him on edge. He wanted her to go, didn't know why he hadn't made her leave. And yet, for all that he felt about it, it seemed to make her happy. So terribly shiny. Did she think something had changed between them? The thought struck him hard. _Had_ something changed? It was just a one-off, wasn't it? She'd said so—"just this once." Nothing about them would change; nothing about them _could_ change. Their mess was _perfect_—like rain pounding on the roof in the midst of a sleepless night; like foggy gloom on the days when you knew you couldn't possibly face the sun. He needed it to stay. He needed—.

He cut off that thought abruptly, turning his eyes to her carefree form. He watched her from a distance, the idea of being close to her was painful, and he wasn't sure why. Perhaps because she was bursting with joy; a full expression of all the things that he dimmed in her. The heavily dewed petals were her loving audience, and the half-risen sun her spotlight. And she was beautiful, just as she had been, laying in his arms, beneath six feet of sheets.

He didn't know—couldn't admit?—what this feeling was, as he watched her dance through the Manor garden. Something inside him wanted to run, to flee the sight of everything he might destroy. But another part of him wanted to catch her, to kiss her, to claim her as his for all of eternity. And this wasn't that strange, for she _was_ his. She would always be his, his perfect drug. The aspect of the urge so alien to him, so terrifying, was this tenderness inside him. Because Draco Malfoy wasn't capable, he knew, of such sentiment and softness. But maybe, for all that he fought it with every iota of his being, maybe he _wanted_ to love her. Maybe he wanted to let hope burn in his chest once more.

But she couldn't save him. No one could. And so he just watched her as she flitted beneath the trees, and bent to smell each flower, and basked in everything that she thought life was. So damned naïve. So _free._

He looked upon her with envy. Desire. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. It wasn't for him to want it. To crave it. It was much safer to crave _her_. And she beckoned to him, offering him a world of salvation in so many forms, but he couldn't take what she couldn't give. And so love bites were rushed down her neck, her hands slipped beneath his shirt, and his forbidden thoughts were forgotten in the face of forbidden acts.


	5. The Roof Is On Fire

Over and over and over again, we play the same old game.  
Cards kept close to my chest: that way the secret's kept.  
So wear your poker face.  
Here's to the fool, here's to the thief.  
Fiction is bitter and you got a taste.

xXx

Put a gun to my head and paint the walls.

xXx

Now you know, you can go, you can give up trying.  
Should have just called it quits,  
Should have just called it quits,  
Leave before it's too late.

- Alligator Blood

* * *

He was standing at the window. She still hadn't left. He'd taken her on the grass and he'd felt that something was different. And the fear rose within him like bile from his stomach and he'd refused to accept it. He led her to the room. Again. And again. He took her. Again and again she gave herself to him. And she _knew_ what he was trying to find, and she _knew_ that he wasn't going to. And her fear was just as strong—he could see it in her eyes.

And he _couldn't_ find it. And it _wasn't _the same. And he knew it. And she knew it. And his cure was tainted. Tainted by honesty, by truth, by—

"I don't love you," he whispered. A vain attempt to return to what they were. Empty words to open up a space between them, a space he'd maintained so long, a space that had been shattered so terrifyingly easily. Too close. Too fucking close. It was almost suffocating. Adrenaline was flooding his veins. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. The feeling, the impulse, was all too familiar. But not with her. Never with her. Not before now.

She looked at him penetratingly, determinedly. And he felt himself swallowed by her eyes. Falling. Falling. Falling.

"I don't believe you." Crashing. Crashing. Crashing.

"Then you're naïve." His tone was harsh with panic. Everything was spiralling. This conversation couldn't be happening. This was just an awful dream—a nightmare. It _couldn't_ be happening. She couldn't be asking this of him. He couldn't give it to her. Didn't she _know_?

"I love you, Draco." Her words were soft. Sad. Bittersweet. And his masochistic heart soared even as the words slashed it to shreds.

_You can't save me_. But the words would never come out. There was too much feeling around them—too much truth within them. And as she watched the bars crash down over his icy eyes, she nodded in resignation. Because of course she'd known. For all that she didn't want to. She somehow knew everything.

He watched her as though from afar as tears she would never let fall began to prick at the beautiful green of her eyes—_like rain on the treetops_, he thought absently —and even still as she turned abruptly, but slowly, and walked away. She was hoping he'd stop her, he knew, but he couldn't—_couldn't_—and so he turned to the fire flickering dejectedly in the grate. But his ears followed the sound of her measured footsteps, and the sound of the door opening, and the sound of its ominous click as it shut behind her. And his empty stare remained fixed on the dying flames.


	6. Eclipsed Requiem

Cross my heart, I don't want to die.

But heaven knows it seems like I try.

Lost in a labyrinth for weeks on end.

xXx

Because I'm staring at the devil and the truth of it is

He's a lot more familiar than I'd care to admit.

If only I could focus, maybe if I could see.

If I didn't know any better, I would say he looks just like me.

xXx

Crossed the line, so many times, that I don't even know what it stands for.

- Home Sweet Hole

* * *

Life was just another war; each day just another battle. The carnage took a different form, and the end goal was something vaguely different, but Draco was still just as sick of the fight.

He could remember the things he'd done—had to do, Severus would tell him. But Severus was ignorant, Severus was stupid, Severus was dead.

He could remember the things he'd done—for the glory of the Dark Lord, his father would once have told him. But his father had changed, his father had defected, his father was in Azkaban.

He could remember the things he'd done—to protect his family, to protect himself, his mother would say. But his mother was weak, his mother was broken, his mother was imprisoned, too.

He could remember the things he'd done—things to be condemned for, he knew. Because he'd done evil, he'd watched evil, he'd breathed, and heard, and felt, and dwelled in evil. Because he was no longer human—just an empty void filled with impotent cruelty. But the Wizarding World had offered him redemption, and so he had to bring judgment upon himself.

He remembered a girl, young—six, he thought, or maybe five—, beautiful blue eyes, confused, sad. She'd been crying, for her mother, he recalled, and clutching a stuffed bear as though it would protect her. He remembered picturing her in happier times innocently cowering beneath her sheets, believing them to be an impervious barrier to the monsters she undoubtedly feared were hiding in her closet.

He remembered a family. The tree dressed haphazardly—clearly aided by the children, with tragic care. Gifts beneath it, bright with promise. Extended family present, he was sure, for they numbered far too many to live in such a small house. He remembered counting them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen… But they'd screamed as one.

He remembered countless homes. Burned to the ground in a roaring blaze. He remembered the heat on his face, the smoke that coated his lungs, his throat, his tongue, that choked him only just less than the tortured frenzy behind the magically sealed windows. No escape. For them. For him.

He remembered each face, each scream, each plea, each curse. They whispered, always, in the back of his mind. They grew louder each day she was gone, as her silence reminded him that their indictments—their condemnations, their contempt, their loathing—were all justified, all warranted, all true. In her absence, they became a part of him. In her absence, he was drowning in an endless black pool of revulsion. In her absence, he was fading to a ghostly reflection of all his sins.


	7. Drowned Delusions

Hide your fangs all you want, you still need the blood.  
Tell us that it's different now. You're up to no good.

xXx

Take my hand, show me the way, we are the children that fell from grace.  
Take my hand, show me the way, we are the children who can't be saved.

xXx

Is this what you call love?  
(This is a war I can't win)

xXx

Every second. Every minute. Every hour. Every day.  
It never ends. It never ends.

- It Never Ends

* * *

He was outside in the garden, which he felt somehow was an irony of sorts, but couldn't quite place how. There was a heavy mist over everything, dulling the beauty, and he thought idly that it was just as likely his own presence that spilled pools of darkness over the landscape, for not even the sun could overcome his black reality. She had left, he thought, some hours earlier, and he'd been out here some hours longer. The time told in the shadows' slow reversal upon the ground, distorted as they were by the ghostly swirls in the air.

The sun soon began to burn away his shroud, and its rays felt wrong upon his skin, as though he were being touched by something that was so far from the ability to comprehend a being such as himself that he didn't belong within its reach. And he retreated into the shade of a large tree, caring not about the dampness of the grass, or the shiver upon his skin. Because this was where he belonged. In the darkness, the shadows, hidden. The wretched, broken creature that he was. He didn't deserve to be touched by the light. He didn't _want_ to be touched by the light.

He sank into an endless crimson sea of self-loathing. Draco was not "good." He would never _be_ "good." He was impure. He was broken. He was despicable. He was beyond salvation, beyond hope, beyond redemption. Waiting, endlessly, for judgment day, when he would be either free from himself, or condemned, deservingly, for all of eternity. Death seemed beautiful to him. A perfect darkness. A perfect escape. A perfect belonging. But he deserved this. To be stuck within his own skin. And so he forced himself to stay, to live. And he despised his every breath.

He couldn't understand what she saw in him. What good. What redeeming quality. Because he was black. His heart. His soul. His mind. Twisted. Dark. Empty. He was selfish and cruel, arrogant and derisive. He hadn't the right to touch her with the hands that had done so much. He hadn't the right to love her as he—. And his breath halted in his chest at the thought.

Was it true? A flood of panic.

Had she resurrected enough of the organ to allow for such a sentiment? Every part of his being whispered 'yes.' Thoughts, feelings, moments he'd long suppressed came rushing to the surface in the revelation's wake.

"_No_," he whispered brokenly. And he realised it was over. It had to be. He wouldn't let himself love her. Couldn't let himself love her. Because he'd do it wrong —couldn't possibly do it any other way. And he'd hurt her. More than he ever otherwise could have through his self-serving use of her. And he refused to crush her as he himself had been crushed. He owed it to her to end it.

Gone. Done. Over. It echoed in his mind.


	8. Lost And Found

Ever since this began, I was blessed with a curse.

xXx

Because everything I touch turns to stone.  
So wrap your arms around me, and leave me, I can't hold on.

xXx

Take back every word I've said, ever said to you.  
Take back every word I've said, every word I've said.

- Blessed With A Curse

* * *

He waited for her. Hours. Sitting in the same spot in the garden. The sun stretched to its height in the sky, sank to the ground, dipped beneath the horizon. The moon slipped into the darkness, stars twinkled peacefully, splayed across the velvet as her hair across black sheets. He felt more like an apparition than ever. A sort of numbness pervaded his very being, yet at the same time, a dull ache had reached into every part of his body. As though his soul were in pain but he'd spent so long in denial of its existence that he wasn't quite connected to it properly.

The night passed in a never-ending blur. And then the sun was rising, bleeding slowly across the darkness. The moon faded in the sky's growing brightness, which washed the blood carefully away. And still Draco sat. He wasn't ever aware that he was waiting. He only knew he didn't care to move. And so he remained.

She arrived that evening, as the sun buried itself once more beneath the ground, returning sooner than usual. As though she subconsciously knew. Knew that something called for her presence. She looked beautiful, even with the concern marring her pretty features as she came upon him in the garden. One last time, he thought, as his heart and his body filled with longing. But no. No 'last time'. It had to end. To end now.

She didn't say anything, and the concern soon faded to a wary sort of understanding, her eyes filling with resignation.

Draco stared at her, drinking in her every feature, committing each carefully to memory. Trying to force his mouth to form the words. _Over_. But they froze, before even reaching his throat, and shattered to dust. And so he continued to stare.

She shook her head, smiling a sad smile, and helped him to his feet, leading him into the Manor. He wasn't sure why he let her. Save that her hand felt good in his, and that a part of him couldn't help but remember that he'd never feel her touch again once she let go. He pulled her onto the couch beside him, still holding her hand, still unable to speak. His mouth opened. Once. Twice. Nothing. A tiny spark of frustration kindled in his abdomen.

Carefully she withdrew her hand from his. "You found it, then?"

"Found what?" The words a small triumph.

"Your heart, Draco," she whispered.

"It makes no difference." His tone was icier than he'd meant for it to be.

She smiled that sad smile again. "It makes all the difference."

A contemplative nod. He supposed she was right.

"I'll miss you." And then she was gone. Quietly. No tears. No kiss goodbye. No pleading for him to change his mind. No clarification that it even _was_ his mind.

And he was once more left to his empty solitude.


	9. And Now To Burn

So just like that you're fucking dead and gone

You can only wear a crown of thorns for so long

We built an empire and you took the throne

But you built it from bayonets and sat there alone

I hope your queen was worth it

xXx

Nothing but a blacklist

With friends like you,

There's no need for enemies

With friends like you,

There's no need for anything

xXx

You're on my blacklist and there's nothing left to say

—Blacklist

* * *

Draco hadn't drank in a long time. Days, months, years—they all blended together—, but it felt like an age, and he knew, certainly, that the time since he last had partaken lay somewhere in the distant past. He wasn't sure, either, how long he'd been sitting in the dark, how much time had passed since she'd left him alone to this torrential swirling of emotion. But now he rose, striding determinedly across the plush carpet, filled with a resolve born of frigid fire. His hand shook ever so slightly—the fury or the nerves, he couldn't say—as he reached for the bottle in the dark liquor cabinet. He stared at the liquid, hypnotized, as it flowed smoothly into the tumbler and then he threw it back furiously, savouring the burn that rent his throat, then his chest, finally resting in his stomach alongside his violent anger.

He poured himself another. Seething. The rage burned just beneath the surface so that he couldn't feel the heat from the fire upon his face, nor the cool of the glass in his palm. It surged over his skin again and again, a growl escaping from low in his throat. He was pathetic. His grip tightened. _She_ was pathetic.

"Filthy whore." _Coming back again and again_. "Stupid fucking bitch." _Gone._

Another glass. And another. And another. And then, somehow, a crash, and the glass was scattered through the fire, its broken shards reflecting the hot tongues of flame in their erotic and flickering dance. He screamed his rage into the darkness, the heat pouring through his veins and wreathing his heart in a painful blaze of hatred and self-loathing and revulsion.

"What did I do to you?" he whispered raggedly, leaning into the wall. He stood, silent, his mind rushing. He was beyond forgiveness. He was a monster. He'd broken her. He— He was broken, too. And he could feel the slivers, of what once was a heart of ice, stabbing through his chest, the pain ripping the rest of his body to shreds. "What did you fucking _do_ to me?" he roared.

Splinters rained over the carpet as the nearby chair shattered against the wall. Another followed it. The lamp crashed to the floor; the near-empty bottle; the book upon the table, its pages fluttering through the air. Draco's wand lay forgotten in a deep corner of the room as he wrought his rage into a destructive force, tearing to pieces the room in which he stood.


	10. For Even Stone Shatters

A/N: The song for this chapter is called Memorial, and it is a music piece only (there are no lyrics), so I wrote this stand-in freeverse. Hope you like it; it was my first :)

* * *

A s o f t e s t rain  
The **world**'s _awash_  
But on the night c r e e p s  
Dusk _fades_ (slowly)  
The moon lurks (faint)  
Behind the **clouded** sky  
And I  
l  
i  
f  
t  
my face  
To the _Heavens_  
As I stand within (my) **Hell**  
I **will **b-r-e-a-k free

xXx

* * *

He collapsed against the door. A crumbled statue in a city of ancient rubble. Cold and empty marble, fashioned in the likeness of a figure long forgotten. A wrecked and forsaken piece of art, its meaning buried deep beneath the sands of time.

His chest felt empty. As void and dark as the Manor. And the silence within him was more profound than the anger that had raged within him moments before. The room around him lay in ruins—the fragments of its holdings strewn across the plush carpet like victims of a gruesome war. Perhaps they were. But the raging fires of remorseless fury had long wavered and burned out, and in their place was left a barren town of ash and grief. His heart felt blackened by its own reckless flames and, with his very last vestiges of ambition, he had firmly shut the heavy drapes against the coming of the sun. Such a symbol of hope was too much irony to be permitted to fall so gracefully upon his battlefield.

His mind was blank. The thoughts trapped beneath fallen rafters. Trapped and no longer hoping for rescue. Resigned.

Mechanically he opened the door and stumbled into the hall before realizing he had no destination. A single thought flitted through his mind. _Shower._ He imagined the water cascading over his shoulders; the ashes of his body smouldering beneath its spray.

But the water didn't burn through his flesh. It didn't drown him beneath its weight. It didn't smother him within its thick steam. Rather, life crept through his veins as though the marble of his making were being slowly chipped away, and the brush of air upon his skin were bringing his heart back to life. And Draco Malfoy _cried_, his tears mingling briefly with the cleansing rush of water before he halted them firmly.

The time for being stone had drained ever so slowly from its hourglass. The time for being weak was long past. Perhaps, he thought, it was time for the snake to emerge from the dungeons and step bravely into the sun.

And so slowly, _so_ slowly, he edged towards the tall window. The sun's rays crashed into his body as he forced himself to throw back the heavy curtains and the dust that had long blanketed the drapes spun into a filtering cloud, hazing through the air around him. Carefully he unlatched the ancient window, and swung it gently open. Fresh air blew into the room, breathing over his dripping hair and filling his lungs with the taste of freedom.

_Time._


	11. Hope, In Shades Of Grey

A/N: One chapter to go!

* * *

I was raised in the valley, there was shadows and death.  
Got out alive but with scars I can't forget.

xXx

Don't go, I can't do this on my own.  
Don't go, I can't do this on my own.  
Save me from the ones that haunt me in the night.  
I can't live with myself, so stay with me tonight.  
Don't go.  
Don't go.

xXx

Tell me that you love me 'cause I need you so much.

xXx

God forgive me, for all my sins. God forgive me, for everything.

—Don't Go

* * *

The dark door rose before him like an impenetrable portend of doom. It seemed as though it might stand against the winds of time and the hangman's axe, but would crumble to ash at his own lightest of touches. He'd never before looked upon its frame nor its ornate knocker—always _she'd _come to _him_. What would she say of this reversal of roles?

A thousand snakes roiled through his insides and his very blood seemed to tremble in his veins. He was just forcing his hand slowly into the air when the door he couldn't quite dare to disturb flew open, revealing a decrepit house elf of dubious ability.

"Mistress is saying Mr. Malfoy is to come in, sir."

He silently followed the elf through a high marble hall and into a well-adorned sitting room. "Mistress is being here soon," it announced, bowing back into the corridor.

For a beautiful, freeing moment, Draco entertained the thought of flight. He could run. He could just go and pretend none of this had ever—

"Hi, Draco."

His heart beat faster and harder than he could ever remember and he feared for an instant that it might break through his chest, revealing itself to her and laying prostrate at her feet. Maybe it wouldn't be such a horrendous thing. He felt her gaze slipping through him, examining everything there might be to see, as his silence stretched between them.

Her eyes narrowed just barely. "What is it you want, Draco? Why have you come?" Her voice was softened by vulnerability, but still as clear as the rain that once fell upon her skin.

Desperation overcame him. What _did_ he want? Did he even know? He'd just arrived, as though swept in upon a ship in a storm, at her doorstep—his island in the midst of a tumultuous sea.

"You," he whispered hoarsely. "I came for you."

Hope and disbelief mingled in her eyes, clouding their purity. "You came… for me?" The uncertainty in her voice crashed into him, and he straightened reflexively as he came to understand her question. For _her_ or for body?

"Why did _you_ ever come for _me?_" he retorted, watching as her eyes veiled.

"I came for _hope_, Draco."

He blinked. "How? How can you ever hope for anything?"

"It's not all that hard when you let yourself love someone."

He stared at her a moment. His mind was a barren land of black—trees long burned to the ground, rock marred by the lick of flame. He didn't understand. Maybe he couldn't. "Can you… teach me?"

She smiled that damned smile, but this time he let himself accept her warmth. And it was beautiful. "I can show you, if you'll let me."


	12. Shifting Sunlight

A/N: The long-awaited finale! Just kidding, but here it is. Please do enjoy :)

* * *

I've been dreaming of us leaving everything and everyone we've ever known.  
I've been thinking all these visions must be a sign,  
So hold on and don't let go.

xXx

So march with me if you believe there's any hope for us.  
I've been hiding in these trenches for far too long.

xXx

Come on come on, get up get up.  
I know a place that we can get away from all of this.  
Yeah.

I couldn't see a thing till I shut my eyes.  
I never knew a thing till I lost my mind.  
I would sell my soul to know it all, but I held the keys all this time.

—Visions

* * *

Maybe it was making love. _Maybe_. He wasn't sure. But he let her, and she showed him. And it was beautiful. It was terrifying. And maybe, just maybe, it was something like perfection. The night fell into a tangle of touches and sighs and softest pleasure. And as they lay together upon her silken sheets, their skin kissed by the fading moonlight, he sank into her scent and her embrace in a way he'd never allowed before.

His chest constricted at her ever touch, as though the sincerity and _love_ would burn his skin and tear to pieces his re-awakening heart. She soon fell asleep, nestled gently, closely, intimately, in his frail-feeling arms. He watched her soft breathing, felt it brush over his bare chest again and again. He wanted to run.

The tantalizing image of slipping out from beneath her and leaving, of never looking back, of fleeing this place, this moment, and everything it might mean, haunted him at her every breath. He couldn't breathe. His heart beat harder and harder, and he was sure that soon it would wake her. It _mustn't_. She was so beautiful lying in his arms, so beautiful and so dangerous. He mustn't wake her. For whichever reason, he wasn't sure. And so he lay there, guarding her from himself, throughout the long and turbulent night.

Astoria awoke as the soft sunlight fell through the open window, brushing over her pale skin. Her eyes opened slowly, and the love and relief in them as they lighted upon his own was painful. He'd made it. He'd survived the night. And he received the most precious and terrifying of rewards as she smiled up at him and gently pressed her lips to his. A kiss. Not an invitation. Just a kiss. Because she _loved_ him.

"Leave with me," he breathed as she pulled away. His voice was ragged, as though the words had been torn unwillingly from his own throat. His eyes bored into hers intensely.

She wavered a moment, her eyes falling to his chest where her fingers danced absent patterns. "Where, Draco? Where would you have me go?"

He took her idle fingers in his, rushing to get the words out before he could stop himself. "Anywhere, Astoria. _Everywhere_. Let's just… just _go_." There was a hope in his voice, stronger if only barely than the fear, stronger by far than the anger he so often hid behind. Her heart was pounding hard in her chest, or was it his own? He couldn't tell. It felt like the world was pulsing around him, within him, between them. Waiting. Hoping.

A dam broke inside him, even as she hesitated, and a rush of feeling flew through his veins. Urgently, he pressed a kiss full of need, and a thousand things he couldn't yet accept or express, to her lips, pulling her into him as though if only they got close enough, they might become one. Her eyes were wide and seemed to reflect his own heart as he pulled reluctantly away. "Come with me," he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Come away with me."

Her gaze turned intent, searching, for the briefest of moments. And then she smiled, nodded. And the world opened before him, the sun rising bravely above the horizon. "Of course." She kissed him softly. "I'd follow you anywhere you might lead me."


End file.
